The Knight In Tafetta Armor Affair
by fantasticly-anonymous
Summary: "What am I going to do with you?" Asked the American. Rubbing best he could at his forehead, willing away the threatening pulse of a tension headache. He snapped to attention at the out of place groan. The first sound of life he'd heard out of his cell mate since they'd been deposited there. "Illya?" Rated T for some violence, language, and innuendo.


"Well, Illya. How're we going to get out of this one?" The brunet glanced down and over to the lump nestled into the gloom of their dungeon abode.  
He gave a sigh. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

He brought both thumbs up to rub at his eyes, growing quite tired of having nothing but gloom and shadows to look at.  
"You just **had** to push the _nasty_ one's buttons."

"Does it run in your family, or has God blessed you _specifically_ with the looks of a shaved hog?" Napoleon watched, _aghast_ as his undercover partner insulted the admittedly rather boarish private security agent for the third time in the span of a minute and a half.  
Illya'd already received a nice slap for his troubles and, by the hard and harden _ing_ look on the agent's face, he'd be getting worse if he didn't shut his borscht hole and **soon**.  
He was playing the role of 'random, slightly drunk party goer' with just a tad more conviction than Napoleon thought reason for.

Hands already tied, the brunet couldn't well send a clear 'cut it _off_ ' sign to the Russian without calling attention to himself. So he was going to have to stare and pray as they were pushed down hallways and prompted down stairs to a worrisome basement level that appeared to have locked, barred, or glass doored rooms on either side of a long linoleum walkway.

"Get your unkosher hands off of me, swine!" Yeah. He wasn't going to get away with that for much longer.  
Though Napoleon knew Illya'd brought it upon himself, he really wasn't looking forward to watching, nor _hearing_ , that guard give the Russian a red cheek to match the first one.  
A matching set would just be excessive.

But the security agent paid less mind to the besotted menace he was forced to 'deal' with than Napoleon had been expecting. Probably thinking now that his charge was not simply a little tipsy, but rather hitching a ride on the vodka express.  
After all; if a nice slap across the face doesn't wipe away an alcoholic grin, the guy had to be in **deep**.

Even Napoleon, when Illya's boisterous affectations kept on down yet another flight of stairs -the stumble was rather artful too-, was starting to wonder whether the smell of eighty proof Polish 'life water' _wasn't_ just a coy dab on his partner's neck. Right where the jaw and ear connected.

Sometimes, when occasion called for the smell of alcohol on one's person, Napoleon could spot the Russian dipping his finger in a drink and applying it as if it were fine perfume. Unlike himself, the Russian had something against drinking and so... he'd be surprised indeed if it happened that Illya _had_ forgone his normal routine and drank the half bottle it smelled like he had.  
And was _sounding_ like he had.

"For the _ultimate_ time: Get your filthy pig hooves **off** of me!" Aaand pop went the Red Peril. Only, hindered by his bound hands and possibly a full tank of ethanol based spirits.  
Still a fairly well executed tackle.

Oh, but the guard saw it coming.

Ooh. Napoleon just about flinched at the agent's retort; a sound elbow to the gut which sent 'random **drunk** party goer's' hands to his own middle, clutching spasmodically at the impact sight.

Oh, dear. The American _did_ flinch when, in one smooth movement, the enraged escort pulled out a nightstick and rapped his doubled over captive once in that tender, perfectly exposed 'night-night' zone. Right above the first vertebrate of the human spine.  
Bit harder than seemed necessary. Even factoring in Illya's height and build. And Russianness.

Down went the Peril, "Nyaaaagh!", screamed the disgruntled guard, and, "Oh, my word! You just _hit_ that poor sot!", observed a tipsy 'second random party goer'.

Ugly, hateful eyes rounded on Napoleon, who affected a convincing quake, as the guard stepped over the mountain he'd just felled. Coming close enough that the spy's well hewn nose picked out the must of a cheap aftershave. Liberally applied.

"Are you going to give us trouble too?" He positively _growled_. Poking a menacing bludgeon against the second captive's sternum.

The American gulped, glanced around the guard, at the man on the floor who'd yet to _twitch_ nor make a sound.  
His eyes came back to nearly meet his threatener's and he took in a shaken breath. "No, no. Certainly not."

"Good," said the guy poking him a second time. "Otherwise," and he jabbed a thumb behind himself, indicating the still as a throw rug individual on the floor.

"No need, I assure you," Napoleon all but stuttered. His cover's persona begging he quell ever so slightly in the face of such a threat. Though, in actual fact, he felt the urge to bop the guy on the nose. Hard enough to make a nice crimson mess on the floor.

"Okay. Into the cell with you then. He'll shackle you," the grunt at the end, as he motioned for his accomplice to open the door and escort Napoleon inside, doing wonders against his claims of not being a pig.  
It was with great difficulty that the spy managed to not tell him so to his face, as he was led into darkness and chained to the wall.  
Like a dog who'd displeased a strict master.

His eyes adjusting to the dimness, Napoleon watched Illya dragged in by the back of his blazer, heard the rustle and clink of chains as he too was fixed for a stay, and didn't miss that, "For good measure," whispered by the swine like agent.  
Nor the capricious love tap he tacked on, with his billy stick by the sound of it, before making his exit.

The door made a disheartening number of 'I am **locked** ' noises as it was shut. Someone, likely the more reasonable of their guards, informed through the tiny barred window at 'tall person' face level that, "Checking your and his credentials may take a while. Get comfy. If you _are_ who you say you are, you will be free to go."

"I thank you, good man," Napoleon said, fingers crossed.  
He heard a scoff, the sound of multiple feet leaving, walking up stairs, and then only the sound of silence. And Illya's gargantuan lungs filling and emptying themselves of air. Incessantly.  
Was better than the alternative, he supposed.

Then he sighed and did his best to settle in for what could be a long, and an anxious, wait.

"What am I going to do with you?" Asked the American. Rubbing best he could at his forehead, _willing_ away the threatening pulse of a tension headache.  
He snapped to attention at the out of place groan. The first sound of life he'd heard out of his cell mate since they'd been deposited there.  
"Illya?"

"I **had** to upset him," mumbled the blond. Sounding as if he'd woken to a megaton hangover and no night of carousing to show for it. "Otherwise, how would I have gotten _these_?"

Napoleon watched through the darkness as Illya's bound hands reached inside his own pant-band and produced a multi pronged, silver-

"Key ring? You mean to tell me you've had that the whole time?"

"Whole time?" Illya seemed to check around the small, stone room for something. Head turning from side to side. "How long have we been in here?"

"You were napping for nearly two _hours_. Thought I was going to have to plan our escape... 'solo'."

"No, no, no. Don't start the wordplay again; my headache is bad enough already."

"I thought you enjoyed a good pun," said Napoleon, feigning hurt.

"I do. A _good_ pun, mind you."

"Hardy har. Now who's making jokes?"

"Not joke," the Russian managed through teeth gritted in concentration. Apparently having some difficulty unshackling himself from the wall.

"If you're feeling woozy, you could toss the keys-"

"Not woozy. I am fine. There are simply... many keys," Illya cut in, confidence nearly convincing as he tried again to open the manacle around his left leg.

"Uh-huh. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"How should _I_ know? Is dark in here."

"Oh. Right. Hmm. In that case: How's the head?" Asked Napoleon, playing up his utter boredom with the situation.  
With no answer forthcoming, he opened his mouth to prompt further. "I asked how-"

"Gotcha!" Whispered a pleased Illya. No doubt sidestepping the question on purpose.

"Ooh, ooh! Me next!" Whispered a Solo who'd copied the tone perfectly. Genuinely interested in being freed from his matching manacle as soon as possible. Not knowing when a guard might be by to check in on their freshest prisoners.

"Hold onto hat, Cowboy. One more to go."

"Really? Hm. Must've thought you a trouble maker; I've only got one," the American informed. Rather pleased with his earning of lesser bonds.  
Not so happy with having access to exactly zero lock picks, though he kept that to himself.

Illya grunted in an obviously 'shut up' fashion, keys jingling sharply in the otherwise hushed space. Stone walls bouncing the sound around a couple times before letting it die out.  
Napoleon couldn't imagine that doing anything _positive_ for his escape partner's headache.

"Yo-moyo!" Exclaimed an Illya Solo felt was overly proud of his minor accomplishment. At least he remembered to toss over the keys when done with them. Though, _both_ of them had forgotten just how tied up the thief's hands were.  
After a near tumble into the two inch mattress of hay, and a nimble fingered quick save, Napoleon had the annoying band of metal unlocked and was free to search for an escape. Except for...

"Hm. I seam to be a little tied up. Perhaps you could lend a fellow agent a hand?"

"Da. Come closer. I will untie hands."

Solo hunched his way across the small expanse and held out his bound appendages, knowing full well that because it was not himself doing the untying, it was going to take a _bit_ longer than he'd appreciate.

He bit back the first jab that threatened to break up the Russian's concentration.  
Cleared the second right out of his throat as if it'd been no more than an innocent tickle.  
Physically _bit_ his own tongue to stop a third, rather nastier insult to the Red's dexterity.  
Then realized that the whole thing was taking altogether **too** long and he should be allowed to gripe about it, blast it a-

Oh. That quiet Russian curse; those- Wow. How had he missed it? The manacles and now _this_?  
The unlucky inebriate was punch drunk off his a-

"For the sake of expedition," he said, stilling the blond's fumbling fingers with his sure ones, "I'll do you first."

Illya sat still as a stone as the great Napoleon Solo untied the complicated knot system that was snaked around his hands. Looking like he was doing his best to remember the order of the quick steps.

"So... how much _did_ you have to drink up at the soirée? Your 'drunk' routine was too good to be just an act."

"Nyet. No drinking. I took some in my mouth, then spit it back out on the next 'sip'." He looked up at the brunet, annoyance obvious even in the oppressive gloom. "You _know_ I don't drink."

"Well... there's a first time for everything, comrade. I just wasn't expecting your first good 'performance' so soon." He had to dodge a swipe at that, but felt it well worth the bother at the grumbled-

"Cowboy."

The Russian's hands freed, Napoleon had his turn to sit still and feel a... not _quite_ master at work.  
He did a good job following what the master thief had done anyway. Didn't end up making the knots _worse_.

"I'll get the rest," the American assured his poor, alcohol wafting partner. Finishing with the bonds in no time at all, what with Kuryakin having 'loosened' them well enough.

Soon as he tossed the offensive, _course_ ropes off to one side, Napoleon stood and felt his way around the perimeter of their stone prison. Hoping for a magic, trick wall exit or some sort of doggie door that _didn't_ lead to a wolf's den.

He slid careful fingers around and over the expanse of their locked door a second time before noticing that his partner in crime hadn't moved from his spot by the wall.  
"Illya, are you sleeping?"

"What? No. Just resting... eyes."

"Illya, you'll be of _less_ than no use to me asleep. Besides; you've had plenty of shut eye already. Up and at 'em," he said, crouching by the toe head and snapping his fingers inches from the drowsy face. Rather softer than he might've on most days. Or nights, as it were.

"One good rest deserves another, as they say."

"That is _not_ how the saying goes; you know that as well as I," Napoleon chastised, pulling against the drowsy Peril's underarms. Knowing full well that the Russian had yet to master the whole 'sleeping on your feet' thing.

"I can stand _without_ your help, Cowboy," the American felt whispered with an unhappy edge, _right_ next to his ear. Now he'd have to wash his face, or risk smelling like Vodka for the rest of the week.

"You _sure_ you didn't drink a few-"

"For the last time; I do _not_ _ **drink**_!"

"Psst! Boys! Stop hugging and help me help you escape!" Came a _quiet_ yell from the other side of their prison door. Odd. Sounded strangely like-

"Gaby? But-"

"Yes, Illya. It is I. I who am here to rescue the two of you. Once again," announced the spy who was far too short to have seen them through the bars unless she'd hopped.

"'Bout time," said an American who didn't feel all that comfortable supporting half the weight of someone who smelled _quite_ as drunk as Illya did at the moment.

"'Bout time nothing! It was a work of **art** getting myself all the way down here. You should have _seen_ the coy bombshell take the floor! All I had to do was sweep over and the entire party offered up the juiciest gossip!" All effused while beginning the undoing of a complicated locking mechanism _whilst_ avoiding tripping any existing alarms.

"She's enjoying this, isn't she?"

"Undoubtedly," mumbled an Illya who sounded seconds from nodding off.

"Hey, Peril! No you don't. If I have to listen to her gloat, so do you!" Napoleon whispered, giving the slumping spy a few... pats on the cheek. Minding it wasn't the one he'd gotten slapped earlier.

"And they were all in a twitter, about two tall drinks of water who'd been dragged off to parts unknown, never to return. One of them a wonderful conversationalist, the other... fun to look at and guess about!"

"I am _not_ going to sleep. Just-"

"Don't give me that 'resting my eyes' bit again, Illya. It's getting old."

"Old like you, eh Cowboy?"

"Leave it to you two to have missed out on a _groovy_ party. I really had a good time. What with the billiards and dart contest, and the drinking tourname-" The consummate 'Gab'-miester cut herself off and shushed her partners in the hold. Sounding as if she was walking off without finishing the job.

"Now _that's_ not very nice," said the brunet. Reaching the point of 'quite annoyed' with _both_ blondes. Wait. _Was_ the German one blonde? Or closer to brunette? Dirty blonde? The way he liked his martinis?

Either way he'd had it up to _here_ with both of them. One drooling on his party blazer, the other detailing a joyous, raucous evening lacking any semblance of professionalism and-

*Thunk*

What was that?

"Gaby?" Napoleon whispered. Venturing that whatever it had been must be his free partner's doing. Her annoying doing.

"Keep it down, Großmaul."

"No need for name calling, fräulein."

"No need for name calling mien Fuß."

"Speak English! My German is müll..." Interjected the guy Napoleon was attempting to scrape off the back wall.

"Shh, pretend you're dreaming."

"Thought you needed me awake?"

"Changed my mind. You'll be less infuriating if we drag you out."

"What's this about dragging? I'm not throwing my back out dragging a body out of this pigpen! I got too many compliments to chance ruining this outfit anyway," she finished with a grunt. Back at it and hard at work busting through whatever kind of gnarly lock they had on the door.

"Oh, never mind. Illya got himself knocked a good one.

" _What_!?"

"He's fine! Aren't you, Illya?" Napoleon prompted, canting his head towards the grate with the smallest amount of illumination filtering through.

"I'm being held against my will! Against a wall!"

" _ **What**_!?"

"Eh, he said he's having a _ball_!"

"Nyet, I sai-"

"Follow me on this one, Peril. We want to get out of here _tonight_ , right?" He asked, giving pulling the Russian off the wall another shot.

"Da. Would be preferable."

"Okay then. _There_ we go! The Red Peril can walk! Woah. Not in a straight line, apparently."

"What's going on in there? Sounds like more than at the party upstairs," Gaby asked, giving the tinkering with the door a few second rest.

"Oh, nothing," supplied Napoleon. Wrangling someone a handful of inches taller than himself, and at **least** two stone heavier, through a floor covering of _far_ too much hay, over to where they might catch a glimpse of their rescue party of one.

"Then why are you out of breath?"

"Just... helping out a friend," he said, finally reaching their destination.

"...Uh-huh. Just like you help out 'friends' and 'persons of interest' while on missions in exotic local-"

"Not quite," the American sniped, peeking through the grate while keeping a hand- _arm_ around the spy he'd wedged into the corner by the door.  
Managing to make momentary eye contact with Gaby, he continued, "As I said earlier: He got knocked a good one. Only a rinky-dink ring of keys and one _concussed_ Russian to show for i-"

"Oh mein Gott! Did you say keys?"

"Uh..-"

"You mean to tell me I could have- I've been wasting my time with _this_!?"

"Uh..." he did his best to see what exactly 'this' was, but couldn't crane his head far enough to manage. "Yes?"

"I swear, someday you two-"

"Would you like the keys _now_?"

"Would you like a high heel up your-"

" _I_ would like to get out of here. Any takers?" Said an Illya who was doing an admirable imitation of someone who could stand on their own. Propped as he was, keys jangling in two extended finger-

"Give me those," Napoleon said, snatching the ring from giant, wobbly digits, "before you lose them."

"'Lose' nothing," sounding as if he was sticking out his tongue, Illya shrunk further into the corner.

"Baby," Napoleon whispered under his breath. Feeding the keys through the grate best he could.

"I suppose I should _thank_ Illya for his contribution?" Posited the German yanking the last key free it's little feed slot.

"We'd be chained to the bedrock if it wasn't for his hard head," Napoleon offered.

"Ha! I suppose the thing's useful for _something_!"

"Ty tak plokho so mnoy dumayesh?" Both sober spies jerked at the tone of the entreaty. Not used to such... rawness coloring that stoic voice.

"I was... referring only to your head bone," Gaby said. Far closer to soothing than was her wont.

"Illya, there are a great many things we think of you and words we might associate with you. None of them are 'thing'," Napoleon demurred. His free hand moving to a shoulder, for once, on the level with his own. Offering a completely separate kind of support.

"..." Followed by what might have been a minuscule sniff, was all the Russian had to say. Not at _all_ worrying.

"Endlich! Eh, 'finally'!" Came the victorious call of a Gaby who had located the correct key and popped the stubborn lock _open_.

"And she said, 'Let there be light!'"

"That's not the way it go-"

"Sh. Shield your delicate eyes; we're entering a brave new world," said whilst coaxing a displeased Illya out from his corner and into the- Wow. Was the hall that _white_ before?

"Ughhhh," groaned the behemoth who hadn't squinted hard enough.

"Gaby, what is _that_?" Napoleon asked, pointing at a crumpled figure less than a half dozen feet off.

"Was that the noise... from before?" Asked the Russian spy who happened to be looking a little worse for wear, out in the incandescent light of the halfway civilized world.

"Yes. He was coming too close. So I snuck up behind him and... put him down for a nap," said a pleased Gaby who's dress appeared so well put together, you'd think she'd just had it pressed. Not... crashed a party, infiltrated the dungeon levels of a sizable compound, taken out at least one guard, and freed her comrades from captivity. With little enough support from said partners.  
They hadn't even been allowed radio contact for the duration of the evening.

Gaby stepped off in the direction she told them would see them free soonest, a baton in one hand and a semiautomatic pistol in the other, and took lead. Naturally. Especially so considering Napoleon was stuck with keeping the third member of their little pop group from face planting or-

Well. _There_ was something he couldn't possibly keep the Red Peril from doing: losing his lunch. Or, hors d'oeuvres, by the look of it. The double cup worth of bile splashing down on a convenient backdrop of black and... was that a pig face?

"I suppose he deserves that," Napoleon nodded. Pulling the Russian back up to a full stand and tugging him to keep going. Gaby was pulling ahead, checking that the coast was indeed clear.

"Uughhh... _what_ on God's grey earth are you-"

"The guard our savior knocked out? Same one what gave you your one way ticket to-"

"I hope _his_ head hurts when he wakes up!"

"So you _do_ have a headache," said a smugger than he had any right to be Napoleon.

"Details, details, de- Wait. Stop. I think I have another gift for him," insisted a Kuryakin more sober than he'd appeared in some time.

So the two of them paused, backtracked a few paces, and Illya deposited a technicolor dream coat of crab cake and finger sandwiches directly on the guard's well starched uniform jacket. Some splashed onto his pig snout as well.  
The two spies watched for a beat, transfixed by the way the hot soup soaked into the fabric and slopped its way down into every pocket and fold. Even into the guy's pants.

"I give it a seven for execution," said the brunet with a wry smile.

In response the blond groaned and put a trembling hand over his own eyes.

"Children! It's time to go hooome!" Came the nearly gleeful call of a spy who very well may have been enjoying the knowledge that she may yet end up shooting someone tonight.

"Remind me to watch out for _that_ one, will you?"

"First you'll have to watch out for my vomit," said between deep breaths. Eyes screwed shut. Letting the American and the German do _all_ the work, for once.

"This suit is dry clean only. You will not be getting any more of your... 'juices' on it tonight. Not if I have anything to say abou-"

"What did you just say about ' _juices_ '? Seriously; I'm _really_ curious what kind of time you boys were having in that cell! All that noise and now talk of 'juic-"

"Not a **word** of this to Waverly!" Came the almost shout of a Solo who didn't enjoy office conjecture coloring the way colleagues look at a person.

"Are you kidding me? This is what he gets up every morning for!" Said a petite special agent who peeked around the next corner, raised her 'borrowed' gun, and fired two rounds.

"You'll _both_ be the death of me," deadpanned a Russian who flinched at the twin reports.

"Easy, Peril. First we have to _save_ you. One thing at a time."

"Ready for a nice little controlled explosion, boys?!"

"Oh, no," whimpered the Red Peril. Quite sure that they were all going to regret this come morning.  
If they made it to morning.

"Fire in the hole!" Came the warning call, exactly one second before a blast rocked the entire holding level. Gaby the only one who didn't look like she was doing a true to life impersonation of a landlubber setting sail for the first time in their life.

Napoleon had just enough balance, quickness in reflex, and strength to keep the blond hanging off his side from tumbling over and _breaking_ his skull. They were still reeling like two chums walking each other home from the tavern, three sheets to the wind and not a penny left to their names. "Whoa there, Peril. Keep it toge-"

"Huh?" Gaby checked behind herself, "I knew it! Good for you, boys!" The sight of her partner's jammed up against each other, faces flush and lips smooshed together putting some real _zing_ behind the swing of her 'acquisitioned' truncheon. Batting a chunk of flying rubble the size of a softball _away_ from her face.  
Incidentally also somewhere it couldn't hope to hurt her teammates. The bungling sweethearts who were just beginning to peel apart and-  
"Oh, boo! Poor form Napoleon! You never gag when the mark on a job is a _woman_! Why should this new love of yours be so different." She jeered. Giving the inferno of flames a few seconds to die down before leading her friends through.

Between a set of uncomposed dry heaves and a few deep, mouth rinsing expectorations, Napoleon found the fortitude to supply a rebuttal.  
"It's the vomit, Gaby. I have a sympathetic gag reflex. _Now_ ," the last word mumbled so their knight in taffeta armor wouldn't hear.

"It was the explosion," called a Russian wiping his mouth against an expensive blazer's shoulder pad.  
Napoleon wasn't even mad about that. The thing was a total loss by this point anyway, what with all the ash and smoke and gunpowder Gaby'd unleashed in the _underground_ space.  
No, in the moment; he was just curious whether Illya was wiping away the same strange tingle that _he_ was feeling. Or just getting rid of some of that acrid sick they hadn't had time to do anything about.

"No more vodka for you," he declared. Deciding that such intimate things shouldn't be thought while escaping a burning, **creaking** basement.

"For the last time: I do _not_ _ **drin**_ -"

"Ah, new love!" Cooed by a Gaby busy emptying the remainder of her rounds around a pillar twice her width. "Stow it; we still need to get to the ocean! Looks like we are going to have a little swim ahead of us!" She informed. To the sound of resounding disappointment.

"No complaining, lovebirds. At least you'll live to explore this new chapter in your sensual, private lives," their backup chastised, leading them out a cavernous, blast induced opening in the back of the manor, and onto several feet of rocky beach which took a sudden fifteen foot drop into relatively calm salt water.

"About that, Gaby," Solo puffed, really starting to feel the strain, both mental and physical, of dragging a half awake _Kodiak_ through a veritable war zone.

"Ja?" Prompted the saboteur turning to bean two approaching security agents with her empty pistol and no longer needed nightstick.

"I think I speak for both of us," he said, giving Illya a little shake, "when I ask that all this talk of 'private lives' stay... _private_."

"Da."

"Fine, fine. Just hurry and get in the water!" She said, giving the two a shove in the direction of the sea breeze. "More will be coming soon!"

"Not a word to Waverly, dear-"

"Get in the water!" Another, _harder_ , shove left a Napoleon standing at the precipice. Feeling lighter than he had in some time and somehow... strangely... 'Solo'.

A loud sputtering broke up his existential musing, and he looked down to the sight of a blond mermaid struggling to keep afloat.  
Oh, right. Illya.

"Geronimo!" Napoleon took a large breath, only to have it forced from him as a cannonball shaped German toe head collided with his back. Sending them both to an early, watery grave.

"Ahh! That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Speak f-for self!" Sputtered a waterlogged Kuryakin, paddling hard to avoid going under.

"You are a menace. You know that, ri-"

An explosion, followed by the sound of burly guard screams, cut off anything Napoleon had been planning on saying.  
The two not wearing the dress looked at the one with the ear to ear smile.

"Boom," she supplied. Dripping hands doing a 'boom' movement to emphasize her obvious glee.

"Alright." Napoleon waved at Illya, calming his distressed rebuttal. "Where to next, mademoiselle?"

"Hee! Thought you'd never ask! Follow me!" And she took off, perfect breaststroke pulling herself body length after body length ahead of the two stunned rescuees by the cliff.

"Once more unto the breach," said the American. A sigh tempering any bolstering effect the sentiment might have otherwise offered. Then he turned to face his... not burden, per se, with a smile.  
"Need a tow?" He got a face full of water for his troubles.  
"Should have seen that coming," he said, groping around for the back of Illya's jacket collar. Ready to do the majority of the swimming for two.

"I can swim on my ow-"

"Save it, Peril. We both know your swimming leaves much to be desired. Even when you're _not_ drun-"

"For last time: I _don't_ _ **drink**_!"

"Right, Peril. Whatever you say."

 **This was my first stab at a Man From U.N.C.L.E. story, and it all started from a special request a friend lobbed my direction!**  
 **I had loads of fun with this one and I hope anyone who reads it has similar amounts!**  
 **Please feel free to shout 'Hello' or leave any thoughts, comments, or constructive criticism below!**  
 **Keep up the good times!**  
 **~Anonymous**


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